


somewhere in the middle (i think we lied a little)

by akanemnida



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Blowjobs, Body Worship, Bottom Sakusa Kiyoomi, Deepthroating, Dirty Talk, Friends With Benefits, Idiots, M/M, Orgasm Denial, Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Teammates with Benefits, Top Miya Atsumu, but they said they are friends, handjobs, i don't know what goes on in this fic, let's believe them, lots and lots of kissing, or at least miya insults sakusa's volleyball skill in bed, porn with lots of background info, whores with lore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:14:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27656684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akanemnida/pseuds/akanemnida
Summary: “Body worship,” Miya said instantly, after Kiyoomi asked him what he wanted as reward as the winner of their service ace competition.“I can do that,” Kiyoomi said with a frown. “God, you really are the vainest person on this planet—”Miya shook his head, smirking. “Nuh-uh, Omi-kun. I meant I wanted ‘ta worship ‘ya.”(Or: Sakusa and Atsumu and all the blurred lines in between.)
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 62
Kudos: 1422
Collections: SakuAtsu Fics





	somewhere in the middle (i think we lied a little)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [akanemnida](https://archiveofourown.org/users/akanemnida/gifts).



> i had a burning need for some bottomi getting worshipped, so i ran with with my need and came up with this. yes, the fic is gifted to me. i hope this satisfies your needs, past-akane.
> 
> i'd say i'm sorry for this thing but i'm not. sorry for being horny i guess. 
> 
> thank you dua lipa for the fic title. you're my mvp.

“Body worship,” Miya said instantly, after Kiyoomi asked him what he wanted as reward as the winner of their service ace competition.

It’s a contest that always starts on almost even ground. On paper, Miya is the stronger server, with three serves that are all equally powerful. But Miya is sometimes careless, prone to balls flying out of bounds. On the other hand, Kiyoomi is so careful, prioritizing placement and spin over force. He rarely ends up with serves that zoom past the playing court, but most liberos had long since figured out how to deal with his spins, lessening his chances for a pure service ace.

It’s a competition that’s pointless on the surface. In fact Meian discouraged it in the very beginning (“Why the hell are you provoking your own _teammate_ —“), but after one full season it’s one the rest of Jackals are grateful for.

There is no need to stop a game that keeps their best servers’ weaknesses in check and keeps them on their toes.

Unbeknownst to the Jackals, it’s also a competition that keeps the libidos of their setter and one of their left-side hitters at bay. Their rewards used to be simple: a week’s worth of free onigiri, followed by two boxes of disinfectant wipes. Taking his chances, Miya retaliated by asking for a kiss on the cheek. Kiyoomi let it happen. And then, when Miya won for the third time in a row, he asked for a kiss on the lips. Kiyoomi pulled down his mask and didn’t stop Miya when his errant tongue swiped at the seam of his lips and entered his mouth.

It’s a kiss that escalated to Miya’s lips on his pulse and Kiyoomi’s fingertips skimming underneath the hem of Miya’s shirt. His other hand moved on its own accord, tugging at dyed locks to guide Miya’s head so their lips could meet again. The entire thing was brief, not much longer than ten minutes, yet it was the undeniable crossing of a metaphorical service line. Miya pulled away, wide-eyed, as if recognizing a fault. A trail of saliva connected their mouths and their erections pressed against each other’s thighs. Kiyoomi, with a flush on his cheeks and his briefs uncomfortably tight, just nodded wordlessly before walking away.

But his traitorous mind was loud when it voiced, _If losing can feel that way, then_ —

Just as quickly, Kiyoomi killed the thought.

_No. A loss is a loss._

Whether or not he derived pleasure from it is irrelevant. Kiyoomi lost. He was merely giving Miya his due reward.

For whatever reason, the bets kept going—Miya would win, and Miya would demand, and Kiyoomi continued to be punished with heady kisses after each defeat. Kiyoomi kept trying and competing, because he’s just as good as Miya, if not better. He’s not a world-class volleyball player to simply concede.

When he finally won again, Kiyoomi raised the stakes by asking for a blowjob. In the locker room, after everyone else left for home, Miya got on his knees and complied.

Since then, their service ace contest had been a way for them to trade sexual favors. Their system, aside from dramatically improving their in-game service percentages, allowed Miya to ask for the fulfillment of his shameless fantasies (“Handcuffs,” Miya once said, eyes glittering, and Kiyoomi couldn’t say no) and freed Kiyoomi from his inhibitions in asking for anything at all (“Use _only_ your mouth,” Kiyoomi demanded, and Miya deepthroated him so hard Kiyoomi swears he saw stars).

Whether or not he wins, Kiyoomi still gets the occasional, mind-blowing dicking courtesy of his starting setter. Despite this, Kiyoomi still hated losing. To _Miya_ , especially, which is why Kiyoomi kept training and polishing his serves, doing everything to convert them to aces whenever possible. He had to if he wanted to go toe-to-toe against the man currently responsible for most of his orgasms, who unfortunately is also the best server in the league.

But every time he loses, his loss aversion keeps giving way to a low thrum of excitement in his groin. Sure, there is adrenaline in winning, and having someone as prideful as Miya comply to each one of his whims is a delicious power trip. However, these days, anticipating whatever unknown activity or equipment Miya wanted to bring to the bedroom as punishment for his loss is equally as thrilling.

The negative of having to deal with Miya’s smug face and unbearable remarks morphs into a positive whenever Kiyoomi finds himself writhing in pleasure as he comes _under_ an unbearably smug Miya…

Overall, it’s an arrangement that blurs the lines between victory and loss.

Earlier today, Kiyoomi lost, with a respectable three aces against Miya’s four. While the Jackals won against the Raijin, a clear-cut victory obtained after four sets, all but three of Kiyoomi’s serves were received by his fucking cousin, his _cockblock_ of a cousin, his cousin who may be a blessing in disguise—

Because of some unspoken horny contract, tonight, he has to give in to whatever Miya wanted. It’s the rules, and Kiyoomi always plays by the rules. And if Miya Atsumu wants _body worship_ , well.

“I can do that,” Kiyoomi said with a frown. “God, you really are the vainest person on this planet—”

Miya shook his head, smirking. “Nuh-uh, Omi-kun. I meant I wanted ‘ta worship _‘ya_.”

Their victory against EJP combined with Kiyoomi’s personal loss is how they ended up in Miya’s apartment, on Miya’s bed. Kiyoomi is fully naked, with his head and his upper back propped up against pillows. His pale torso is a stark contrast against Miya’s navy blue sheets.

“I’m not gonna tie ‘ya up, Omi-kun, ‘cause I like it when ‘ya touch me,” Miya says, looking appreciatively at Kiyoomi’s nude form. Miya is still clothed, that bastard, wearing a pair of boxer shorts and an undershirt. “But unless you say the safe word, ‘yer absolutely _not_ allowed to tell me what to do.”

“Wasn’t planning to,” Kiyoomi responds. “Do what you want.” Kiyoomi means it.

Not being in control is its own twisted sort of fun.

Like how this entire arrangement started, Miya starts with chaste kisses on his lips. It’s nothing special, just Miya hovering over him, strong arms caging his sides and chapped lips touching his own. He pulls away briefly, and then moves back to kiss him again, and again, feather-light and butterfly-soft. Pleasant, but nothing more.

Kiyoomi parts his lips, hoping to at least progress to kissing with tongue, but then Miya promptly changes course, planting soft lips higher, two kisses directly on the moles above Kiyoomi’s eyebrow. The kisses are torturously slow: his left cheek, and then his right cheek, and then the underside of his jaw—

“Oi, what are you doing?” Kiyoomi tries for aggressive, but his voice is breathy, borderline needy. It’s hard to talk when the flat of Miya’s tongue is licking a stripe along his neck.

The blond pulls away and shifts silently, lowering his clothed torso so that it’s a comfortable weight against Kiyoomi’s body.

“Admirin’ ‘yer pretty head,” Miya murmurs beside Kiyoomi’s ear before taking an earlobe into his mouth, causing goosebumps to rise all throughout his body.

Sex with Miya is usually a frenzied affair, never slow and certainly not tender. The victor would take whatever he wanted from the other; the fact that the loser also enjoyed is a product of pent-up hormones due to their busy schedules and the inherent depravity that came with young adulthood.

There is nothing frenzied about Miya Atsumu’s mouth making its mark slowly everywhere it goes.

If Miya keeps up this pace, tonight is going to be a long night.

Kiyoomi tries to stop his heart from fluttering as Miya lets go of his earlobe and moves back to kiss his slightly parted lips, making it easy for Atsumu to slide his tongue into his mouth.

 _Is_ this _body worship?_

 _This feels intimate, but this still is just casual_ —

His train of thought is cut abruptly by a thumb tracing circles on his left hip while Miya’s mouth moves downward, latching onto the top of his sternum.

Kiyoomi hopes that Miya can’t hear the way his heart rate suddenly speeds up.

“’Ya have moles here, y’know.” It’s a casual remark, a statement of fact. Declarations of objective truths should not be making him blush. Miya moves his mouth slightly lower, just below his breastbone, and leaves an open-mouthed kiss there. “Lots of them.”

“Mmm— _nngh!”_

The thumb on his hip moves up, a calloused setter finger making light contact with a pink nipple. Miya pulls his lips away from Kiyoomi’s chest, watches as Kiyoomi’s face contort in pleasure as he rolls the nub in between his thumb and forefinger.

“And you’re _so_ sensitive here,” Miya croons and grins when he sees the nipple harden under his touch. “’Yer tits are pretty, Omi-kun, d’ya know that?”

Kiyoomi, did, in fact, not know that. He tells Miya this, gets a laugh in return, and then suddenly there’s a mop of blond hair in his line of vision and— _oh—_

He lets out a choked gasp. With a thumb still tracing circles around his left areola, Miya’s mouth latches onto his right pec, making Kiyoomi’s mind go momentarily blank.

 _Pretty head, pretty tits, pretty, pretty, pretty_.

The Miya-voice in Kiyoomi’s head is noisy. Kiyoomi tries to drown out the unnecessary noise with his own wet sighs as Miya continues to lap at his nipple, fingers still working their magic on the other. Miya’s fingers are a sin, as is his tongue. _Pretty, pretty, ‘ya have moles—_

“Omi-kun, ‘ya should see ‘yerself like this, pretty and laid out just for _me_.” He punctuates his statement with teeth grazing lightly against a darkened nipple. Kiyoomi keens. 

_For me._ The statement makes Kiyoomi’s toes curl. If the victor’s job is to take, then why is Kiyoomi the one laid bare, twisting in pleasure underneath Miya’s tongue, taking whatever it is that Miya wanted to give?

Why did Miya Atsumu, upon earning his hard-won victory, ask for the explicit permission to compliment Kiyoomi, to _worship_ Kiyoomi, to make Kiyoomi feel good…

The mouth on his nipple finally pulls away, granting Kiyoomi temporary reprieve. But Miya’s stupid tongue slides lower, tracing a wet path from his chest, grazing past his obliques before reaching his navel. Miya swirls the tip of his tongue inside his belly button, all while maintaining eye contact.

Frankly, it’s really fucking hot.

It’s so hot, Kiyoomi stops asking _why,_ focusing what little brainpower he has left on more pressing matters.

Like the fact his dick is half-hard and is pressing against Miya’s clothed chest.

Kiyoomi bucks his hips up slightly, in part trying to get the stimulation he craves but mostly to try and draw attention to his neglected cock. Miya notices and grins like the asshole he is before lifting himself up so that their mouths can meet again in a searing kiss. Miya swallows Kiyoomi’s whimpers when the spiker’s hips contact Miya’s own hardening erection.

It’s Kiyoomi who pulls away first. “Please, Mi— _Atsumu_ ,” he breathes, his voice pathetic even to his own ears. “Get on with it.”

“Thought ‘ya weren’t gonna interrupt my plans?” Miya says mockingly. He grinds his hips down against Kiyoomi’s, teasing. Kiyoomi winces. “Haven’t even touched ‘ya yet and ‘yer already beggin’—”

Kiyoomi pouts, a last-ditch effort to try and get Miya to do what he wants. “Ever considered that I’m begging ‘cause you’re not touching me?”

The corner of Miya’s lips quirk up slightly. It’s infuriatingly attractive. “Ever considered that I like it when ‘ya beg, Omi-kun?”

“Then at least take off this stupid shirt,” Kiyoomi snaps, tugging at its hem. Miya shrugs and raises his arms, allowing Kiyoomi to pull off the offending shirt completely.

It’s a sight he’s seen so many times before—in the locker rooms, in the gym, in his own bedroom during their evening trysts. To be honest, Miya’s abs and Miya’s pecs are not _that_ much different under the glow of Miya’s bedside table lamp.

With the shirt off, what’s different is that when Miya moves in to kiss him again for the nth time, Kiyoomi can wrap his arms around Miya’s bare shoulders. Kiyoomi can rake his too-long nails down Miya’s back, creating marks, making statements that he’s really not supposed to. Though the better part of his mind tries to stop him, Kiyoomi does it anyway. Like always, Miya doesn’t stop him, responding in kind and licking just as possessively into Kiyoomi’s mouth. The familiar taste of spearmint toothpaste on Miya’s tongue is one he wants to—

Kiyoomi grabs that train of thought before it goes _somewhere_ and tosses it into a river, down a mountain, off a hundred-story building. He tries to shift his hips upwards in an attempt to grind against Miya’s erection again, in hopes of short-circuiting his own brain for even almost thinking _that_ —

And once again, Miya notices. “Since when was pretty, prissy, Omi-kun this _needy_?”

“Since you haven’t been giving me what I want,” Kiyoomi says with gritted teeth.

Miya raises a carefully groomed eyebrow. “Oh?”

 _Shit_.

That was completely and utterly the wrong thing to say. The expression on Miya’s face is positively _evil_ now. He lightly trails his fingers downwards, along the broad expanse of his chest and then across the planes of Kiyoomi’s abs. Miya lets his hand ghost over the light patch of hair beneath Kiyoomi’s waist, leaning down to blow lightly on Kiyoomi’s erection before moving past it completely.

“Fuck you,” Kiyoomi blurts out shakily.

“Maybe later,” Miya teases while lifting Kiyoomi’s left foot slightly off the bed. He plants a chaste kiss on his ankle, and then a soft one on the top of his foot, followed by three kisses on his calf. “’M busy kissing all ‘yer moles.”

Kiyoomi can’t believe this. Victory is directly in his line of vision and yet he couldn’t _have it_ because this _stupid asshole_ isn’t giving it to him…

“If you look hard enough, maybe you can find a mole on my d— _fuck!_ ”

The hand not holding his leg moves higher, its fingertips finally caressing Kiyoomi’s shaft.

Kiyoomi groans loudly. He’s finally being touched, even if it was so slightly, even if it was just so lightly, but it’s nowhere near enough—

And then Miya lifts his hand, abandoning Kiyoomi’s cock completely.

“I won, remember?” Miya’s voice is gentle and warm, but there’s a dangerous edge to it. He returns his full focus on Kiyoomi’s calf, speaking in between sucking marks along Kiyoomi’s long, long expanse of leg. Stupidly, Kiyoomi wishes he weren’t so tall.

“’Ya don’t get to tell me what to do, because I played better today.”

It’s the truth. Miya did play better. Kiyoomi nods, frustrated as Miya brushes his lips gently on the skin of Kiyoomi’s knee.

“In volleyball, the serve is the only time ‘ya get to play solo,” Miya reminds him condescendingly, as if this weren’t a fact he’d known since the day he started playing. “And _I_ did better today, Omi-kun.”

“Y- _yes_ ,” Kiyoomi breathes as Miya’s lips finally contact his inner thigh, so close to his cock yet so fucking far.

“And when you played well, they were ‘cause of _my_ sets,” Miya growls before grazing his teeth on the skin of Kiyoomi’s thigh, and then biting down _hard_ on its flesh. He moves away to admire the mark he made before lapping at it with his tongue, as if to soothe the pain he inflicted himself. The sensations on top of his desperation were so overwhelming, Kiyoomi could only moan brokenly in response.

Miya sits up and catches Kiyoomi’s gaze.

“—So ‘ya better win next time so ‘ya can tell me what to do, Omi-kun.”

His words reeked of denial, of depriving Kiyoomi of what he wants, so Kiyoomi gasps when Miya’s hand unexpectedly makes its way back to his cock, the then-fluttering fingers on his erection finally forming a tight grip around the base. He pumps his shaft, up and down, so, _so_ fucking slowly, Miya’s other hand tracing circles around the slit.

The rough lines of Miya’s palm feel so good against his dick. Kiyoomi tries to rut against it, tries to set his own pace, but Miya’s grip is unrelenting. It feels good, but it’s not _enough_ , if Miya would only fucking move _faster_ —

He doesn’t.

With a terrible, terrible smirk that would etch itself in his mind for the rest of his life, Miya completely detaches his hands from his cock.

Kiyoomi almost cries in frustration.

The thing is: Miya had a point. Miya handed him defeat, and this is his punishment: to live with Miya’s stupid words and Miya’s stupid plans and Miya’s stupid tongue and Miya’s stupid hands teasing every part of his body, sending his senses into overdrive but not enough to push him completely off the edge.

He could touch himself. He could, he really could, and it would tick Miya off but grant him the brief taste of relief he craved. But Kiyoomi’s entire life principle had been about _doing things correctly_ and _abiding to the rules_ and _proper completion_ —

But how the hell was he supposed to even finish when Miya kept dangling his orgasm out of his reach?

He tightens his hold on the bedsheets instead.

“Anyone ever told ‘ya that ‘ya look good when ‘yer mad?” Miya muses while peering down at Kiyoomi’s face. “Probably not, ‘cause ‘yer always wearing a mask when ‘yer grumpy, but ‘ya do.”

He keeps talking. The words are rather sweet, but in context it’s the most irritating thing. It’s hard to come up with good retorts when his brain is breaking for various reasons. What part of this is _doing things properly_ when Miya kept making this whole thing more romantic, softer than it has to be?

This isn’t mere body worship. Miya is doing things improperly, out of order, seemingly without the intent to see things through.

Miya is exacting torture of the most excruciating kind.

“’Yer face gets all red,” Miya says, his rough fingertip tracing a line from the moles on his forehead down to the cupid’s bow of his lips, and then slightly lower, lingering in the almost nonexistent gap between his top and bottom lip. “Then ‘yer mouth gets all pouty. ‘S the cutest thing.”

Annoyed, Kiyoomi takes Miya’s index finger into his mouth, suckling at it briefly while locking gazes with Miya’s amber eyes. A blush manifests high on Miya’s cheeks, but the setter is unyielding, as he always is. He just laughs lowly before pulling the finger away.

“’Yer beautiful, Omi-kun,” Miya says, shrugging. He takes Kiyoomi’s left hand, lifting it away from the sheets. He glances at it briefly. “Kinda just felt like telling ‘ya that tonight.”

If the pounding in Kiyoomi’s chest had taken on an unsteady pitter-patter throughout Miya’s ministrations, his nonchalant admission, the sincerity in his words, had Kiyoomi’s heart beating even faster. The blooming in his chest is almost as unbearable as his erection. It’s a sickly, unfamiliar feeling, one he doesn’t know what to do with.

“’S another one here,” Miya whispers, stroking the inside of his wrist before kissing it lightly.

Kiyoomi is rendered speechless.

It clicks: maybe the worship is the torture. Maybe worship is the punishment he deserved for not getting just _two_ more aces against EJP.

Kiyoomi has been so unused to non-volleyball related compliments all his life.

Without a word, Miya moves downwards so that he is directly facing Kiyoomi’s throbbing cock. He blows at it gently just to tease, causing Kiyoomi’s eyes to flutter shut at the sensation. He bites his lip to stop the desperate begging from tumbling out of his lips— _Miya, get on with it—_ but then Miya grasps the base of his cock in one hand and cups his balls in the other. Kiyoomi could only whine, hips jerking at the sudden contact.

And just when Kiyoomi thinks he’s received all that he can get, just when Kiyoomi thinks that that he can sigh in relief as Miya finally decided to give him what he wanted, all that he deserved…

Without warning, Miya puts the head of his cock into his mouth.

“ _Atsumu_...” The sound of his name is so lewd on his tongue. “ _Fuck_ —”

Miya alternates between kitten licks around the tip of his cock and swiping his tongue across his slit, lapping up all the precome leaking out. The hand on the base jerks him off quickly and roughly, following the pace they _both_ know Kiyoomi preferred.

And then, Miya’s kisses the tip of his cock softly, runs the flat of his tongue along the thumping vein on the side of Kiyoomi’s shaft. Kiyoomi opens his eyes just in time to see Miya hollow his cheeks and part his reddened lips, taking more of Kiyoomi into his mouth. And— _oh._ Stupid Miya had managed to remove his boxers in the middle of lapping at Kiyoomi’s dick; now, he’s palming his own erection.

Kiyoomi hisses. It’s too much. Everything about this threatens to unravel Kiyoomi’s world from the inside out.

The warm heat of Miya’s mouth surrounding his dick is intoxicating, along with the idea that Miya is getting himself off on sucking Kiyoomi’s cock. Kiyoomi cries out wantonly, his fingers burying themselves in Miya’s hair, pushing his head down lightly so that Miya can take him in even _deeper_.

The result is a breathtaking vision: sloppy Miya, prideful Miya, the best server in the league Miya. Miya who was supposed to lord his victory over Kiyoomi, reduced to a cocksucking mess. His cheeks are flushed, his mouth is stuffed with Kiyoomi’s erection, drool leaking from the side of his lips.

Miya bobs his head, up and down, and then hums. The suction combined with the vibrations send shockwaves rippling throughout his body.

And then Miya decides that it’s time to finish him off. He takes Kiyoomi in even further. The tip of his cock hits the back of Miya’s throat.

He tugs at the blond hair in an attempt to get Miya to ease off his cock. Kiyoomi’s thighs are quivering, and he’s rapidly hurtling towards his own release, and if Miya doesn’t fucking _stop sucking his dick_ …

“Miya,” Kiyoomi rasps, looking down at Miya’s face. There’s a wetness in the corner of Miya’s eye…

His lower body tenses. “ _Atsumu_. Stop—I’m gonna—”

Miya raises an eyebrow, challenging. His words from the start of the night— _‘yer absolutely not allowed to tell me what to do—_ float back into the last remnants of Kiyoomi’s consciousness.

_Miya won, Kiyoomi. You have to give him what he wants._

Time stops. Kiyoomi shatters completely, spilling cum into Miya’s mouth.

Wordlessly, Miya swallows every drop.

Kiyoomi is forced back into consciousness when Miya throws a damp towel on his face.

“Oi, wake up,” Miya whines. “’Yer gonna get real pissy in the morning if you wake up all sweaty and gross—”

Kiyoomi blinks once, twice, trying to remember where he is. Navy blue sheets, volleyball posters on the wall. Miya’s apartment. Right, their bet.

The setter tosses a water bottle gently in his direction, and Kiyoomi catches it. Hand-eye coordination doesn’t die completely in the afterglow.

“Ah, fuck, did I fall asleep?”

Miya nods, placing his hands on his hips. “Yep. Low stamina as ever, Omi-kun, tsk.”

He uncaps the water bottle and takes a swig. “Thanks. Sorry—”

“What’cha sorry for, Omi-kun?” Miya interrupts. Kiyoomi scoots over to one side of the bed to make space for Miya. “The fact you fall asleep every time you come first? ‘M used to it. Wouldn’t have you any other way.”

The back of his neck turns uncomfortably warm—wouldn’t _have you_ —

He pats the towel on his nape and promptly ignores Miya’s words. “Yeah. You didn’t come.”

“Was jerking myself off while giving you a blowjob,” Miya says, rolling his eyes. “’S fine. ‘S what I wanted to do tonight.”

“Because you won, you wanted to suck me off?” Kiyoomi answers with a scoff. “That’s selfless of you.”

“Selfless? Just ‘cause I sucked you off? Are you _kidding_?” Miya says, laughing.

“I mean, I didn’t even get you off,” Kiyoomi says, narrowing his eyes. He continues to wipe the rest of his body with Miya’s towel. “I still don’t understand what _you_ got out of tonight.”

“Ever consider that I get off on seeing you squirm? ‘Ya turned so red every time I called you something nice and ‘ya kept getting pissed when I wasn’t giving you exactly what you wanted.” He licks his lips. “It’s fun.”

“You’re sick in the head,” Kiyoomi retorts. They’re silent for a few seconds while Kiyoomi folds the towel into a small square. He places it gingerly on the bedside table.

Kiyoomi speaks after a moment of consideration. “So you didn’t mean anything you said, you were just making fun of me?”

“Didn’t say that, Omi-kun,” Miya answers, and without missing a beat, “’Ya sleepin’ over here tonight? ‘Ya still have clothes in my drawer there somewhere—”

“Yeah. Too tired.” Kiyoomi lies back down on Miya’s pillows, a wave of relief washing over him. Miya looks at him curiously before throwing his blanket across both their torsos.

“Night, Omi-kun. Try to win next time.”

Kiyoomi rolls onto his side, facing away from the setter.

It’s another unspoken rule: they can sleep on the same bed, but they don’t _cuddle_. They’re friends. Teammates. The feelings they share are platonic. And yet Miya kissing his wrist gently, _yer beautiful, Omi-kun_ —keeps replaying in his mind. He has his own toothbrush on Miya’s bathroom counter.

The traitorous thoughts nag him as he tries to drift off to sleep. Forget blurring the lines between victory and loss—this entire thing blurs the lines between setter and spiker, between teammate and lover, knocking down once-fortified walls that Kiyoomi had built around his heart. Everything about this is improper.

As if adding insult to injury, an arm slings around his waist. It’s oddly comforting. This whole series of events is out of order.

Once again, Kiyoomi lets it happen. There’s no need to stop a game that improves his services and keeps the two of them on their toes.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, and I'm on twitter as @bottomikun (heh) if you're up for a chat!


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